October 2014

October 31, 2014

I wrote about Halloween last year, just after we implanted the Lone Ranger, the last frozen embryo from my sister's egg donation cycle. I was in the 2ww, again, and not in the mood for little kids in costumes.

Halloween has never been my favorite, but these kinds of kid centered holidays can be especially hard for people on IF Island. It can trigger a lot of feelings, especially the feeling of being left out. So here's my two cents:

1) If you're not feeling it this year, there is no shame in turning off your lights and watching a movie in a back room somewhere. You don't owe anyone anything.

2) Putting a bowl of candy on your porch is totally legit.

3) Avoid social media today--there will be lots of babies dressed up as pumpkins or bumble bees or something too cute to stomach.

4) Treat yourself to something, delicious or other wise (a smashing new pair of orange ballet flats and a bag of Reece's peanut butter cups could really hit the spot right now).

5) And have a happy Friday! If there are adult parties tonight, rock them! If it's a quiet time to be alone, enjoy it. You deserve to feel good, so find a way to try and take care of yourself.

October 30, 2014

I just read a comment from a fellow Islander who has been on the Island for 4 years, been through multiple cycles and procedures, and just got a negative beta on Wednesday and can't financially afford to continue down this path. Her first line to her comment was, "It's over for me." Just like all of us, all she wants is a family. And she appears to have done everything she possibly could to try and get that. My heart goes out to you and all those who are in the moment of feeling that it's over for them. I totally understand that, and have felt that way several times along our journey.

The worst time was after the egg donation cycle with my sister. It was such a rough time and I felt like I had hit whatever the place is that comes after rock bottom. It felt over. And in that moment maybe it was. Even though I always knew Noah and I would find a way to have a family, we were down for the count for some time, because we just didn't know how we would move forward--what we could do, what we could afford, what my body could handle, what our lives and relationship could handle--it was a definite moment of being on hold. But I like to think of it more as a hold, not over.

I've been working on a book about our journey to parenthood, and am posting a short, semi-edited excerpt from something I wrote after our first IVF proved unfruitful:

...According to the Kubler-Ross model known as the “Five Stages of Grief,” I was clearly transitioning from anger to bargaining to depression, at warp speed.

The “Five Stages of Grief” theory states simply that there are identifiable stages that most people commonly experience when there is a loss. Though usually this refers to a death, it’s applicable here, as it is with any grief. These stages aren’t necessarily linear, and they often overlap or repeat. I realized I’d been cycling through these stages repeatedly with every new loss.

The first stage is Denial. This is how Noah and I put our feelings on hold to get through the Holidays with a smile. We just “tabled” the fact that we had just failed an IVF cycle, and that our chance to become parents felt slimmer than before. We pretended my body was not full of hormones, some not FDA approved, and that we had nothing to show for our efforts. It didn’t seem real. So we chose not to think about it, because there was nothing we could do.

When January arrived, I entered the second stage, Anger. Pure, overwhelming anger. We were unsure of our next step, and having no plan upset me. I was so very full of anger, but I wasn’t sure where to direct it. So I found a way to pick fights and put myself in situations that could only make me angrier. Whereas anger is normal and probably a necessary step towards healing, I can tell you first hand, it sucks.

Then comes Bargaining. That’s what I was doing when taking that pregnancy test, what I do every time I take a pregnancy test. I bargain. If…then…I promise…I swear…please. While our embryos were dying a slow non-cell dividing death, I found myself bargaining a lot. I thought about what I “should” have done differently, and felt guilty for getting my family so invested. I wished and prayed and ultimately moved to the next stage, Depression.

Over the last two years, I’ve been in and out feeling depressed during our effort to make a family. But the depression that comes directly after a specific loss is a debilitating gloom that’s different than the cyclical sadness I’ve felt throughout this process...

I believed getting a puppy would help me enter the final stage of grief, that of Acceptance... We did get a rescue puppy, but the week we got her I had three deaths in my family and had to give the puppy up. The timing was not good. I re-entered the stages of grief for different reasons, but I did come to the point of accepting that our first and only IVF cycle with my eggs didn't work and I would have to let go of my biology. After spending a month funeral hopping Noah and I were ready to figure out the next plan. And we did. And then we figured out the plan that came after that when we had to. And then the next plan after that plan didn't work. I couldn't have fathomed any of the plans we attempted at the time of sadness coming off that first unsuccessful cycle.

When our hearts are broken and we feel completely devastated we just aren't functioning at our usual capacity. We are broken and sad and hopeless and angry, and justifiably so. But it is in these moments that I tried to just tell myself right now I am empty. Right now I am lost. Right now there are no solutions. But it won't be like this always, and I won't feel like this always. Giving myself time to grieve and process and pause without making any decisions or judgments (easier said than done) helped me not feel all was lost and over, but that I was just falling through space and time holding the pieces of my broken heart in my hands and hoping something would break my fall. Right after another disappointment is the time that it's most important to heal and take care of yourself and your partner and not make decisions. Sometimes there comes a point where it is over and people decide to live child-free. That is a very hard decision to make but understandable for some. But other times the despair and sadness require a time-out so things can be reassessed and goals can be redefined. And out of the destruction often comes a new idea, a new possibility, a new solution.

Each situation is very different and sometimes seeking professional help from a good therapist can help with this process. I send so much love to all those feeling empty right now. All I can say is I've been there and I get it. But I also know that sometimes we are empty and sometimes we are full, and sometimes we are somewhere in-between. That's the changing nature of life and being human and that nothing stays the same forever.

October 29, 2014

So I don't really want to say I'm on bed rest, because really, it's a very modified version of bed rest. There are people who have to lay in bed all day and only get up to go to the bathroom and maybe get a quick snack. That's awful. I'm being cautious and laying low because I don't want to land in the ER again, and aside from being a little lonely at times, I can't complain.

People have been asking me what I do all day and wondering how many hours of Real Housewives I watch daily. The answer to the first question is I'm not totally sure, the day kind of just goes and somehow I manage to stay kind of busy. And the answer to the second question is none. I have never seen a single episode of Real Housewives. I know. What's wrong with me, right? So here's my list of things to have/do to survive being housebound:

1) GOOD BOOKS. I usually have a few books going at the same time. One is a for fun book, one is infertility/parenting related and one is hopefully more educational. My for fun book this week was actually one of my dad's books. Dad is a writer with over 20 published books and when I went on bed rest he brought over a stack, I mean, a STACK of his books for me to read. No excuses, right? Well, I read one of his more recent fiction books, Begin Again Finnegan, a Hollywood thriller, and was really impressed! Finished it in less than two days and now my dad can't nag me about not reading his books. The infertility related book I read this week was a new book called Where Have All The Storks Gone?. It's written by a husband and wife who were on IF Island for several years, and lived to tell their story. It's also a very quick read and provides both of their perspectives, and many scenes/moments a lot of us here on the Island can relate to. They also have a website for the infertility community called stork parenting. Now I'm reading a book my yoga teacher brought over called The Continuum Concept that is basically telling me I should have constant physical contact with Momo when she's born. It's interesting to read different books on parenting but there is SO much information out there, sometimes it's too much and too conflicting. I'm confident we will figure it all out at some point.

2) GOOD FRIENDS. It is really helpful to have visitors when stuck at home. Practicing my dwindling social skills once a day for an hour or so helps me feel somewhat connected to the world.

3) GOOD FOOD. Obviously. I'm slightly obsessed with the fact that I know I'm not getting enough protein. I try but I'd rather eat fruit or ice cream than protein. Then I feel guilty and paranoid but I do the best I can. Good food can have a variety of meaning I suppose.

4) GOOD TV. For some it's bad TV. For me, I've really been watching nothing but the World Series, and as a Giants fan last night was some seriously bad TV. OMG. It was awful. I'm really excited that Master Chef Junior is coming back in November. I really blew through too many good series during my first round of bed rest.

5) A GOOD CRAFT PROJECT. I'm not super crafty but wish I was. I write. That's my craft. And I do spend a lot of time writing. But I think it's good to also do something with your hands, other than typing. So my mom said she would get a bunch of plain onesies and teach me to embroider. Baking sometimes also satisfies the urge to create, and also satisfies the urge to stuff my face.

Hmmm. What else. I'm able to do some work from home as well, so that keeps me busy. As does working on our documentary. I'm considering the fact I haven't worn shoes or real pants in a month a blessing rather than seeing it as being confining. It's all a matter of perspective and my view on all of this now is that the only thing that matters is that Momo is growing.

October 27, 2014

Over the last few months I've gotten some emails from people in different situations asking me if I think they should be hopeful, or if there is any hope in their situation. Then yesterday, while working on our documentary, Noah found the clip below, so I thought I'd share.

Confession--I am not naturally a super optimistic person. I'm not pessimistic either, but I'm very realistic and perhaps fairly scarred by what has gone down over the past several years for us here on IF Island. I was very optimistic during our first IVF cycle, and then I learned how heartbreaking it is when things don't work, and my blind faith in assisted reproductive technologies was gone.

With each cycle and procedure we've done, I have found a way to be hopeful. I've geared up mentally and physically, and have had a terrifically optimistic husband at my side, keeping my doubts in check. I never went into anything unless I knew I felt open and hopeful, and I've learned how to cultivate that a bit.

The emails I have gotten lately are from people who have gone through similar losses and disappointments on IF Island. Women with a very low first beta, or few follicles, or only one normal embryo after PGD testing over 20 embryos. They ask me if I think there is any hope, and all I can do is think about the moment in the clip below.

This was shot the day I got my first beta results from the embryo donation cycle. I had taken a home pregnancy test the day of the beta test, which looked like this:

And then I took a blood test that confirmed that faint whisper of a line with the number 23. The fertility clinic nurse said I was "technically pregnant" but that the number should be closer to 50. When I asked if there was any hope, the nurse said something like "you never know," but basically said this number was not that good. Needless to say, I was hysterical (see below) and Noah continued to cheer us on:

My brain thought it was over. A 23??!!! But my heart wanted so badly to believe things were going to pan out. Comments on the blog from others who were in similar situations that turned out positive really helped me, as did doing some hypnosis work with my friend Lauren, who is a trained hypnotherapist. I went to her house at night during the week I played beta roulette and she drilled into my fearful subconscious that my beta numbers would double, that Momo was growing, and helped me visualize and imagine the sound of my doctor's voice giving us good news. I did my best to push aside the fear and doom, and found a way to be hopeful.

Being on the defense sometimes feels like a good idea--believing nothing good will happen somehow convinces us that we don't care or the fall won't hurt as much. But it will. Because deep in our hearts lives a hope that all of us who dream to become parents just can't crush. We wouldn't be going through all the procedures and crap if we weren't in it to win it. So we have hope whether we want to believe it or not.

The several women who wrote me asking about being hopeful did not all have positive outcomes. For some, their beta numbers rose and then fell, or the transfer of the one normal embryo didn't end up working. But should they not have been hopeful? Should they not have believed? Would that have made it better for them? I don't think so. My theory is you believe until the curtain falls. You put a positive energy into yourself until someone pulls the cord.

A few of the gals who wrote in did have positive results. One gal did an FET of an embryo that she was told became a blast on day 6 and was of poor quality. It was one of three embryos that formed from over 26 eggs retrieved. And it worked! We never know.

My starting beta at 23 is now an 18 week old fetus, who I think I felt doing a fist pump last night when the Giants won the baseball game. I wasn't hopeful all the time, sometimes my personal goal was to just be neutral and not let any negative energy seep in. I tried my best and I've learned that sometimes hope is all we have.

Sending lots of hope to everyone out there waiting to see what happens.

October 23, 2014

I've gotten a few comments and emails from people asking how we got to embryo donation. I think folks are looking more for the specifics of how/where we found our embryo, but I think there are two parts to the answer so I thought I'd write a little about it here.

Part one, I believe, is the emotional part. How does one emotionally get to the point of embryo donation, or any third party reproduction choice. Part two is the logistics, which, unfortunately, will differ for everyone. Embryo donation isn't super common yet, but I'll provide what I know.

After IVF, multiple IUI's, IVF with my sister's donated eggs, Noah and I were broken and broke. It had been three years of riding that infamous emotional roller coaster, and we were literally sick to our stomachs. Our lives had been on hold, my body was a hot mess, emotionally we were both devastated. Rock bottom. We still had hope that we would be parents. In fact, that was never a doubt for us. It was the when and how that was starting to create more wear and tear than we could handle. We were isolated from friends and just sad. All the time. But like most people, we wanted a baby on our terms, we wanted a genetic child. I had given up on my eggs when we moved to my sister's (I actually considered it an upgrade, she's amazing!) but neither of us were comfortable giving up on Noah's sperm. That seemed to be the one good piece we had, so to toss it aside seemed...just not right. If he could have a biological child, why wouldn't we try for that? Well, like I said, we were broke. I mean, we could have taken out loans, but the thought of an anonymous donor not working and then having to pay off the debt from that unsuccessful cycle seemed---just terrible. We also didn't know if I could even carry, as I'd never been pregnant. Doing a donor egg IVF cycle for $30,000 + only to find out my uterus didn't work also sounded terrible. You know what else sounded terrible? Going through the paperwork, expenses, and time commitment for a traditional adoption. Everything sounded terrible. So we just pressed pause and sat with it.

We luckily were usually on the same page and at this point neither of us knew what to do. I started researching frozen donor egg banks and shared donor cycles and various programs that had guarantees or refunds--but again, everything felt terrible. I learned about embryo donation and started calling clinics in my area to put myself on donor embryo wait-lists. Then, when I was on the phone with one of the donor egg bank people, I asked whether they had any donated embryos. The conversation evolved and I found Momo, and something just felt right. To me at least. Those were the logistics. I began searching and calling and throwing myself out there. I had some really desperate phone calls with random clinics where I was asking for whatever "leftovers" they had. If you're not a patient of a particular clinic, the staff isn't always that nice to you. My RE said that after the new year, he sends bills to people for their embryo storage, and said by around March he would know if he had some embryos that were a good match for us. He didn't end up having anything, and I knew I found Momo.

But emotionally, Noah wasn't as attached to Momo, so we sat on it. There was something kind of--amazing about the idea of Momo to me. That it was a gift from strangers. That it was neither mine nor Noah's and yet would be both of ours. That it would possibly help us find out if I could carry, and it was affordable at just over $7,000 not including meds and travel. It was also my ethnic mix, and I liked that. Noah didn't really care about my ethnicity, but what he did care about was a) being a parent and b) getting off the hamster wheel that is infertility treatments. If the goal was to parent and get off IF Island ASAP, then embryo donation was our fastest ticket with the best odds and the least expense. We decided we would do two rounds, as there were two embryos and the clinic would only let us put one in at a time, and then if it didn't work we would get a loan and move to adoption.

In the time it took to create the logistical plan, we also processed what this alternative way of building a family would mean, and we grieved the loss of our genetics. I happen to think I have a beautiful husband. He's a gentle, funny and genuine person with an even temperament and an incredible amount of patience. He's also not bad to look at. Since I met him, when we were in college, I dreamed of having his baby--with his perfect nose and sweet dimples. That felt like a loss to not be able to possibly see those things in our baby (but then again, the poor kid could end up with my funky nose and dimpless cheeks), but you know what I mean. But when I found Momo and thought about Momo, all I felt was what we could possibly gain. A family. Momo would be totally free of anything we projected or looked for. She would be her own 100%. That can be scary or that can be incredible, and we chose to believe the incredible. It took several months, maybe six to really process and feel ready for embryo donation. And once we did, we jumped in. That was it.

Logistically, it was kind of a pain to do an FET out of state--but it was doable. So when people ask me where we found Momo, I kind of feel like there was luck and persistence and chance involved. I recommend starting with your own clinic and clinics of friends. Actually, now that I'm remembering, I had a few friends call their RE to put us on embryo donation lists because our friends had relationships with their doctors. I know there are sites like the national embryo donation center and the embryo adoption and awareness center but those didn't feel like a good fit for us. We preferred a private clinic, it seems like less of a hassle. By the time one gets to embryo donation, you want the least hassle possible. But people do "adopt" from these larger centers. I also saw on twitter the other day an article on a tutorial about embryo donation so maybe that can be helpful.

All of us on IF Island are trying to make sense out of nonsense. We are trying to make the best choices out of a handful of choices we don't really want. We are heartbroken and grasping at straws for much of the time, and in the shadow of this despair often comes a resolution, a faint ray of sunshine and hope, an option you didn't think of or didn't think you'd be comfortable with.

Noah and I love Momo so much. She is ours. She is truly a fighter and perhaps our job was to find her and bring her into the world.

October 21, 2014

Last night, my pregnant sister-in-law had her baby. Noah and I were on pins and needles for much of the day as Noah received text updates from his brother. We were both genuinely excited and nervous--for them in the moment, and for us in the future. Noah and I have spent so long trying to get something to grow in me, we didn't really think about getting it out. I am still so focused on keeping Momo in I can't imagine the exit strategy. Learning the play by play of birth was...a lot to take in.

All went well for them and a new human being is officially on the grid. This whole process of making life is so amazing and insane--beautiful and painful. I know Noah and I got to feel the thrill of their experience partly because we know Momo is coming too. Is that terribly selfish? Maybe. But it's the truth. I don't know how I would have felt if we had just come off another unsuccessful cycle or a loss. I don't know how it would be if we were in the process of getting matched with a birth mom through an adoption agency, or had just taken out a loan to pay for an anonymous egg donor. I'd like to think I would be just as excited and that I'd be able to put my own self and situation aside to fully appreciate theirs, but I don't know. There is something specific about infertility that stings at the core, and creates some of the most unwanted feelings of jealousy or frustration. I didn't feel that last night. I just felt happy (and a little terrified of birth, but I'm not there yet.)

I haven't been very present for much of their pregnancy process and I woke up wondering if I was even going to be welcomed to play the role of Auntie, and figure out what that really means. Being on IF Island while friends and family are frolicking around Fertile Farms is a tough spot. Many people you want to support or who you want to be supported by just can't. It's a very hard thing to logically explain but a wedge gets created and both sides start to drift. That's at least what I've found to be a common situation. My mother always said how I handled myself in the moment was important, because one day things would be different. Sometimes I felt I could handle myself well, sometimes I couldn't. Sometimes I feel regret,and sometimes I recognize I did and am still doing the very best I can. I always try to be honest with others, but more importantly with myself.

Last night when their baby was born and we got a first glimpse, Noah said, "looks like she has my brother's mouth, kind of." We were already looking at identifying the baby through the parents--one of the most common things we all do. Who does she look like? I had an overwhelming feeling in that moment of gratitude. It was weird. I thought I'd be sad or something, that Noah and I won't have that experience of finding our traits in Momo's face, but I wasn't. I felt so thankful to the egg donor and the couple who donated Momo as an embryo, for giving us this chance to grow and make and have Momo. I have no idea what or who Momo will look like, so she will just have to look like herself. I know one thing though, yesterday when I saw her on the ultrasound at the doctor's office, the doc said she looked like she had long legs. Yay for donated genetics, because long legs were not something I would have been able to pass down! (Did I mention the egg donor was 5'11? And I'm 5'5 in heels? Again, terrified about the exit strategy).

Momo is kind of saving our lives right now. It's a lot of pressure, perhaps, on a 17 week old fetus, but it's true. She was waving on the ultrasound yesterday and the placenta previa is slowly making it's way away from my cervix, which hopefully will mean no more blood baths. I'll keep resting for another month and hopefully it will resolve soon.

My friend Candace once said that adoption is not a cure for infertility. She adopted her incredible baby boy and her life is forever changed. She is a mom now, and that's her main focus, but when she said that adoption isn't a cure, that kind of struck me. Having Momo won't cure our infertility, but it will give us a different focal point. The whole journey (that's still going) has given us an experience and an appreciation that we wouldn't have been able to have otherwise.

Sending love and wishes that everyone on the Island will soon find a different focus.

October 18, 2014

Greetings and happy saturday from...my bed! You'd think I'd be sick of being in bed but I have to say, it's kind of my safe space now. And I can move about so it's really not as bad as some people who have to literally lay in a supine position all day long. I can't complain.

So just a short post today giving anyone interested a heads up that I was interviewed on the Fertility Revolution Podcast. You can listen here if that's how you want to spend part of your saturday. (It's about 30 minutes or something).

And if you're not in the mood, then scroll down and maybe one of these little internet gems will make you smile. Have a great weekend.

October 17, 2014

I've written a lot about relationship survival on IF Island and just wrote a piece for Fertility Authority about it again, because I think it's an important topic that a lot of people/couples might struggle with.

Infertility can take a toll on a marriage or committed partnership. You and your sig fig might not always be on the same page, and the stress of living with infertility often creates this intense pressure-- emotionally pressure, physical pressure, financial pressure. I often felt a pressure to figure it out. I'm a problem solver. I like to analyze a situation and come up with creative solutions, as do many others here on IF Island. The problem with infertility, though, is that sometimes, often times, the problem can't exactly be identified, and the solutions often have a very low chance of success. We all have to weigh in risk factors and time factors and financial factors while at the same time many of us are trying to grieve some specific losses we might feel. Having a partner on the journey with you can be very supportive, but can also cause some tension.

One thing I wrote about in the recent blog for Fertility Authority is the importance of remembering that you and your partner are on the same team. Team Get Us Off the Island and Get Us a Baby! Sometimes it will be just the two of you and a doctor to whom you pay a lot of money on that Island. Sometimes there will be a lot more people. Our team has shifted over time. Many friends were very supportive in the beginning, but after years of infertility treatments it became a little exhausting for them I think. Also, many of them got pregnant in the time Noah and I were trying, and that created a rift.

All relationships get affected by infertility--friendships, work relationships, family relationships, even your relationship with yourself. Sometimes relationships can change for the better. I have several friends who have really stuck by me, and we are closer than ever now. My parents have been an incredible source of support, and I think our experience on IF Island has changed them in positive ways as well. And Noah and I are stronger than ever. Many people comment that going through the challenges that infertility brings has made their relationship and communication much better and stronger. I believe in that. I believe that within the chaos and destruction that infertility brings into ones life, some peace and growth can be found. But I also know there can be some tough times and its common to lose some friendships.

So what's my point? To remember that there is an opportunity to learn something about ourselves and our partners in the madness of infertility. To always be honest with yourself and your other, and to know that you might not problem solve in the same way but that you do have the same goal. To try and communicate in a way that everyone can feel good about, and when needed, to take a time out. To take care of yourself and to try to remember your friends and family are doing the best they can, even if sometimes it doesn't feel that way. And to always, always be kind to yourself and your body.

October 15, 2014

I just learned that today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day and I wanted to take a moment to send love and hope to anyone who has experienced this. I have many friends who have had miscarriages or a stillbirth, and even know a couple who have lost an infant to SIDS. It's awful and I feel myself tearing up as I write this.

Earlier this year, I wrote about creating rituals after a loss. I think finding a tangible way to honor a loss like this is important. I have never had a miscarriage, so I can't claim to know what that experience is like. I can't even imagine the heartbreak and trauma. I don't really know how to categorize the feeling of loss that comes with a BFN or that feeling of emptiness that Noah and I felt during our first IVF cycle after we knew our embryos fertilized well but didn't divide. I knew they weren't babies, but they contained the hopes to become babies, and for us it was devastating to know those petri dishes were washed out in a sink in a cold lab, little specks of our combined DNA, the only specks of our combined DNA, circling the drain.

I can't compare the loss of our embryos to the loss of a baby-- and I wouldn't dare to. But I will say that IF Island is filled with people experiencing and recovering from different kinds of losses from the loss of being able to conceive naturally to the loss of genetics to the loss of being able to carry to the loss of embryos to miscarriage and beyond. But IF Island is also filled with people who are resilient. People who can get back up and find the inner strength and determination to heal their hearts and continue to fight to find their baby.

Everyone has to do what feels right for them. Some people heal quickly from loss, some people need more time. There's no right or wrong here. But each time any of us gets knocked down and we feel that there's no way we can handle what's out in front of us--know that we can and we do. That's who we are. We have to find ways to look forward towards an optimistic future even when we've been buried in grief.

Life is filled with times of extreme sadness and times of exuberant joy, and everything in between. That's part of the deal with being human, and definitely part of the deal with trying to create another human. Learning to sit with the emotions of wherever we are at, finding ways to cope, and doing our best to move forward is all we can really ask of ourselves.

I hope everyone on IF Island can find a moment today to send love to yourself, (if you're on the Island, you had some form of loss) and love to any babies you may have lost. Know that you're not alone and that this community sends a lot of strength and healing to you. If anyone wants to share their experience or things that help them heal, please do.

October 13, 2014

Well, actually, I'm driving him bananas. Bed rest take two, week two begins today and let me say we survived week one by the skin of our teeth. Is that the saying? So weird.

I've written about the challenges IF Island can have on a relationship many times before, specifically in thesefewposts. Mostly I've written about the common relationship stressors and the various ways Noah and I have gotten through them. I do feel our relationship is stronger from our experiences and we definitely communicate better. But sometimes the daily grind of what's happening on IF Island and beyond can just kind of make you drive each other crazy.

Being on round two of bed rest (not counting short stints post transfers), means its old news. The first time around was in August with the hematoma. I was so terrified and so sick and nauseous that I could hardly eat or move and basically just moaned in bed, which kind of made things easier. I wasn't as conscious. This time around, Momo is stronger so I'm a little more confident, and I'm more alert, which makes me more frustrated and bossy. I'm very aware of that. And so is Noah.

I am very lucky to have a wonderfully patient husband, but he's a) at work for about 10 hours a day b) forgetful c) exhausted when he gets home. I on the other hand am a) in bed or shuffling around the house for about 10 hours a day b) super specific (slightly OCD) about how I like things c) awake and ready to bark my needs the second he walks through the door. While I am not just flat on my back all day, I can do some things around the house, I notice I start spotting more when I'm upright and more "active." And that makes me panic. So I'm trying to be still and I definitely can't do things like go to the market or climb a ladder to change a light bulb (that's been out for weeks but I'm trying not to notice). I feel helpless and useless which in turn makes me frustrated. Then Noah gets home from his long day and I feel guilty asking him to do all these things and really, I don't want him to go to the market, I want him to hang out with me. But the next day when there's no food in the house, I'm angry that there's no food in the house. See where this is going? In circles.

Last night we talked about this merry-go-round we're riding. It was almost 10pm and I had a really weird cramp in my left pelvic area that started sharp and went dull and is still there (?), so I was, surprise, in bed, and asked him to bring me a bowl of cereal. He brought up a giant bowl overflowing with cereal, about a half an inch of milk and giant slices of bananas. I suddenly wanted to cry (also, I think the hormones are kicking up a notch, is that possible?). It was so...clumsy and not how I wanted it. On the one hand I was so appreciative that I have him and he was bringing me a late night snack and he actually does take very good care of me, but on the other hand, the milk to cereal ratio just made me feel like crying. I didn't want to criticize his efforts and ask him to go back downstairs to get more milk, but I also didn't really want to eat it dry. First world problems, right? I ended up saying something bitchy about how giant the bowl was and he snapped back something rude like, "well, don't eat it if you don't want all of it."

We were both at our limits and we recognized that right away. The years we've spent learning to problem solve on the Island have taught us how to take a step back and discuss a situation like grown ups. We ended up having a good conversation about how we communicate what we want as well as our disappointments. We avoided another mango meltdown by acknowledging my own limitations and frustrations and how for years things just haven't gone the way I would choose or want. And we acknowledged how Noah has taken on a double load and how some of those duties he just doesn't like or isn't great at. And we came up with a plan of how we were going to tackle the next week. I explained my preference for thinly sliced bananas and he laughed at me. Order was restored.

I am going to continue to try and be more flexible and patient with him, myself and the situation. He is going to try to remember to do some of the things I ask and work on his plating presentation. And we are going to get through this.

A special thanks to my friend's who've come by and brought food and good company--you're helping more than you know!

October 08, 2014

One day, each and every one of us on IF Island will be able to look back at the dark infertility years and say, "remember when..." That's a fact. Because one day we will all be over 50 (hopefully) and I don't think doctors prescribe menopur to women over 50 because they are probably starting to make their own post-menopausal pee. (I'm pretty sure that's the secret ingredient in menopur, or at least it was at some point in time). At some point, we will have resolved our infertility crisis and be looking back in retrospect, possibly arguing with out sig figs as we try to remember if we did three IUI's or only two? Did we also do a frozen transfer off that cycle or was that the time before? Was I on bed rest the whole time or just a few months (TBD, fingers crossed). Everything that feels so immediate and intense right now won't feel that way forever.

I think about gaining perspective often when I start to feel frustrated. Being on IF Island means the pause button on your life has been pushed. It often means rather than moving forward with hitting certain milestones in your life, you're kind of doing a side shuffle. It means many other hopes and dreams and plans are put on hold. And when you're in it, it feels never-ending.

Spending the better part of the week now on bed rest is its own kind of holding pattern. In one way I feel like I am moving forward as Momo is growing and each day is a day closer (though the end of March 2015 feels like a million years away). But I get frustrated at what my life and career and relationships have become--stuck. Noah wanted to try and go on a trip over the winter holiday, ummmm.... I just had to file for disability from work, and laying in my bed with me is not the preferred past time of most of my pals. Though I am so appreciate of friends who come by and bring food and good company, it really helps the day go by.

But. And there's a but. It just is what it is. I didn't expect to deal with infertility for the years that I did. I didn't think being P was going to put me on my ass like this. I didn't think once I got P I'd still feel so stuck, but it is what it is. And if I start to pull the focus of my lens back a little to get more of a wide angle view, I can start to see the bigger picture. Four years of infertility and treatments and a complicated P isn't totally a drop in the bucket but it isn't eternity. On the time-line of my life it will be a small dark spot. Momo will one day have her first birthday. She will start school. She will turn 16. She will learn to drive. OMG. Now I seriously have anxiety.

I was reading something about parenting after infertility and it seems like one of the hardest things for people who are P after ART is to be able to imagine the child, as a child. I think that may be because we on IF Island are so focused in on the immediate experience we all have--it's hard to open out to imagining what's on the other side of all this.

But there is another side. And that's important for all of us to remember. No matter where we are in the process, I think it's helpful to take some time to get perspective and remind ourselves whatever our immediate experience is right now will change. It will. Change is the only thing we can be certain of, right?

October 06, 2014

I woke up this morning thinking about the differences between being P and being P after Assisted Reproductive Technologies. Now, I've never just been P, so I don't really have a fair perspective of what it would be like to have a natural pregnancy in a reasonable time frame. Comprehension of what that might be like is out of my wheelhouse, and I don't want to assume an easy conception and pregnancy is all rainbows and unicorns. I assume it comes with its own anxieties and concerns as life transitions and changes in the body that are unknown often cause a variety of feelings. But what I can speak to, or write about, is the added challenges that many IF Islanders may face when we finally get P after years of ART.

For some Islanders I've talked to, there is sometimes an initial ambivalence, or even denial of getting that BFP. While part of your brain wants to jump up and down with excitement, the other part is cautious and terrified. Many people have gotten a BFP only to have it swept out from under them. Until those people get past the time of their previous loss or losses, it's hard for them to acknowledge that the P is really happening. I never felt denial, though my slow rising betas and the hematoma made my initial BFP feel more like a Little Skinny P.

Being P after ART means the usual anxiety and trying to deal with whatever traumatic baggage you've had to bring to the Island. It means being on medications to sustain the P which can exacerbate an already hormonal situation and make the P feel that much more fragile. There is past loss and fear and often times guilt for getting that coveted ticket off the Island. Though I know I worked damn hard to get my ticket off the Island, I do feel guilty that so many others are still struggling. Survivors guilt perhaps. For many people there is also the repercussions of having third party involvement in the P. Whether having donors or a surrogate or adopting, having other people involved can be a beautiful special thing, but can also signify a loss of genetics or ability to experience being P. Having a surrogate also means you are P after ART, but not being the one to physically carry your baby can bring up a lot of things too. Issues of control and missing out on certain opportunities are all common.

Another thing about being P after ART is that many of us will have more complicated pregnancies. ART can often times mean multiples or just flat out complications. I really didn't think this part through. My goal was just to get something in me and I trusted that my body would figure out the rest. I figured a donated embryo would some how be a walk in the park because it was my genetics that appeared to be the problem. Yet here I am on my second round of bed rest wondering how I'm going to get through the next six months. When you've worked so hard just to get P, there is kind of a feeling like we all deserve to have a beautiful easy time. Like the hard stuff should be behind us so we can be joyful and excited. Many of us may feel somewhat robbed of the opportunity for pure bliss and thinking about baby names. This can sometimes cause envy of people who have "normal" easy pregnancies, or even resentment.

It's been interesting that since I've been P, many other people have come around wanting to share their P stories with me. That one time they felt nauseous or how they felt scared they didn't feel movement once and had to go in for an emergency ultrasound. It's nice that people want to share but I'm having some trouble relating. I listen and try to learn but I don't feel part of the club of people who had "typical" pregnancies. I don't really know where I belong or what I feel sometimes.

Sometimes I do feel a little jealous of happy P people who can exercise and buy maternity clothes without being superstitious. But I remind myself that we all have a different path and that I am very lucky, bleeding and all, to be where I am. With Momo, my little fighter. I also have a strange sense of pride that I have survived all this madness. Four years on IF Island. Letting go of genetics. And battling through a complicated early P. I am proud to be an Islander, with so many other warriors. And I know Noah and I are both better for our experience. We've learned so much and have found an inner strength and resilience that not everyone has the opportunity to have. So for that I have gratitude and appreciation for our process, our relationship, and our selves.

I hope everyone out there on IF Island can take a moment today to appreciate where you are in your journey and appreciate your own strength and the love and support you have in your life.

October 04, 2014

I typed in the title of this post and am now just sitting here. I thought I had some words of wisdom about calming the fear and relaxing the body but if I'm being honest, I don't know how good a job I'm doing myself. Ok. Let's dissect this together shall we.

Thursday was one of the most traumatizing days of my life. In moments of panic like that, sometimes the brain and body go into this bizarre survival mode where you become somewhat removed for the immediate experience. I was there, I was feeling what was happening, but I was also checked out.

Yesterday I went to my OB and she confirmed everything the ER doc said. Momo is fine, the placenta is being difficult. While I trust my doctor and really like her, I'm having a hard time believing everything is fine. I woke up all through the night on Thursday because I could feel myself bleeding. I woke up this morning wanting to cry because my belly looks less round and I'm worried I'm "deflating" and Momo's little sac is going to close in on itself, or something ridiculous. I have guilt and fear about my body not working properly, and worries that something else terrible and scary is lurking around the corner for us.

And now it's Saturday morning, and I have to get a hold of myself. All my feelings and fears are normal and understandable, but they don't serve me in any way. They just make me feel bad and drive Noah bananas. Noah has this enviable yet somewhat annoying ability to never get freaked out. About anything. Ever. He goes with the facts he knows and moves on.

The facts we know are that Momo is still in there. I'm not "deflating" and she still has her heartbeat and her dance moves and is measuring at 15 weeks, which is on target. My body is not failing. My body has grown her from a blob of soap bubbles to what looks pretty close to a human baby, even at this stage. My body is working out the kinks. It seems to throw us some curve balls at times and that's frustrating, but it is what it is. Momo seems to know how to hit the ball out of the park every time.

It's a sunny day here in LALA land, and while I'm confined to the bed, I can take my dark, fearful sunglasses off and just sit with what is. For now. Because that's all I have. Worrying and wondering about what might happen, and then worrying and wondering about how my worry and wonder are negatively impacting Momo is making me crazy. So I'm just going to stop. I'm going to take a deep breath and watch back the footage of yesterdays ultrasound. Noah filmed Momo on the ultrasound monitor so I can watch and remember that she's still there and she's okay.

That's my weekend mantra. We're ok. Everything is ok. My mom and aunt are coming over with healthy food so Momo doesn't eat a giant bowl of cereal with a giant scoop of ice cream in it for dinner, again.

Wishing and hoping everyone out there is more than ok this weekend. Thanks for all the love and support.

October 03, 2014

Yesterday had the potential of being the worst day of my life. Now, I've had some pretty bad days during this epic journey to parenthood that Noah and I are on. You can read all of 2012 and 2013 for a sampling. But yesterday probably takes the cake.

I went to work. I was having lunch with one of my co-workers/very best friends, Gladys, when all of a sudden I got a sharp pain in my lady parts. "My vag hole hurts!" I cried, as my girlfriend took a bite of her sandwich. We joked around a little and I went to the bathroom and when I walked back into my office I started bleeding profusely. Way worse than the hematoma I had. It was like nothing I've ever experienced. Red blood was soaking through my pants and the feeling of terror that washed over me was worse than any I've felt before.

I shoved paper towel down my pants and had a bizarre and hectic moment with one of the support staff members at work as the fire department was being called. I had a vision of waiting for a team of uniformed men to rush up the stairs to carry me through the hallways of my office covered in blood on a stretcher and decided, no. That's not what is going to happen. I work at a hospital that has an ER around the corner. So my girlfriend and I shuffled our way to the ER where she took this lovely shot of me:

I just kept thinking that this was it. Game over. I'd never had blood gush out of me like that and I found myself repeating, "Hang in there Momo. Hang in there baby girl." I wasn't ready to lose her and kept imagining her in the last ultrasound. Dancing and looking like a little alien chicken.

The ER experience was painful and cold, but the first thing the doctor did was an ultrasound, where we saw Momo. That pause before seeing any activity feels like forever. My breath gets trapped in my throat and water immediately fills the bottom of my eyelids.

"There's a heartbeat...and she's moving," we're the words that allowed me to swallow. Nothing mattered in that moment. Nothing matters anymore but Momo's beating heart. Noah and I love this baby girl so much already. So do so many other people--including her Auntie Gladys who stayed with us the whole time and was an amazing support. And Momo was dancing for Gladys, without a care in the world. Either that or she was spazing out, but I like to think she's just dancing and doing her thing.

After having a catheter put in, blood drawn, an ultrasound, an IV, and a pelvic exam, the source of the bleeding was determined to be the placenta previa that's partially covering the cervix.

As I was laying there, shivering in the ER, I wondered if this was my fault. If maybe I did too much over the weekend. I went on a long-ish walk on Tuesday, maybe it was that. There really is no point in thinking about it like this, because at the end of the day, an exact reason can't be known. I was told I did nothing wrong. Last month, I was told I was "normal" once the hematoma cleared up, so I acted cautious but "normal." And I had a good run-- a few weeks of feeling like everything was going to be ok.

Now I'm back in bed. We saw my doc this morning and we also saw Momo again:

She wasn't as active but she was there, with her beating heart. My doc is hopeful the placenta will move and I'll get another shot at being "normal" again. Until then, I'll be in bed. Visualizing Momo at 20 weeks, then 30, then dancing in our arms. I can't be anything but hopeful, even though I'm terrified.

And it all is what it is. Another bump in the road. Another test of patience and love. Another scary story. I feel like we have a really long way to go, but we'll get there. One day at a time.